


Repercussions

by sahiya



Series: Falling for You: The White Collar Hockey/Figure Skating AU [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Concussions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2856143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter didn’t remember the hit. Neal did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repercussions

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Fuzzyboo for beta reading!
> 
> I started writing this before the [hit](http://www.sportingnews.com/nhl/story/2014-12-11/jonathan-toews-face-first-boards-blackhawks-dennis-seidenberg-bruins-defenseman-boarding-video) that Jonathan Toews of the Chicago Blackhawks took in their December 11th game against the Boston Bruins. But this fic is certainly informed by having watched that hit and some of the media fallout. (It appears that Toews is fine, or at least he has not yet run his car into a support beam of the El as a result of post-concussion symptoms like he did in 2012.) 
> 
> In short: I had feelings. They are complicated. So Peter and Neal get to have them, too.

Peter didn’t remember the hit. Neal did. 

It was a home game. Neal wasn’t supposed to be there; he was taking a couple of art history courses at SUNY-Buffalo, thinking about going for his degree, and he had a lecture that night. At the last minute, it was canceled, and he decided to go to the game. 

Afterward, he wasn’t sure whether he was glad to have been there or not. If he’d been at his lecture, he would’ve had to find out second hand - but he would also have been spared watching a human mountain wearing Flyers orange slam into Peter from behind. Peter’s body twisted awkwardly, and the plexiglass rattled as his helmet slammed into it. He slid down to lie on the ice, and he did not get up again. 

Neal knew those few seconds were burned into his brain for the rest of his life. Everything that came afterward, he barely remembered at all. They wouldn’t let him near Peter; all he could get from anyone was that they were taking care of him, and Neal could see him at the hospital. Neal was down as his emergency contact and his next of kin, but they weren’t married, and no one would tell him anything he wanted to know. 

The game had ended and the rest of Peter’s teammates had started trickling into the hospital waiting room by the time his doctor came out. Neal had been texting back and forth with Peter’s parents, but he immediately dropped the phone and stood up. He was thankful for Jones at his side, his hand heavy and comforting on Neal’s shoulder. 

The doctor’s words washed over Neal in a terrifying wave. _Moderate to severe concussion. Overnight for observation. Memory loss. Confusion. Dizziness, disorientation, nausea. Placed on injured reserve indefinitely._

“He should make a full recovery,” the doctor finally said, and Neal let go of the breath he’d been holding. “But it’s hard to know how long that will take. It simply depends on how long his symptoms persist.”

Neal cleared his throat. “Can I see him?”

The doctor nodded. “They’re just getting him moved to a regular room. As soon as he’s settled, someone will come and get you.”

“Thanks,” Neal said, on autopilot. He sat back down, vaguely aware of Jones passing the information to the rest of the team. His phone buzzed, and he glanced down at it, realizing he’d never replied to Peter’s mom’s last message, and Sara, Elizabeth, and Diana had all texted as well since then. 

Peter’s mom wanted to know if they should come down. They only lived about two hours from Buffalo when the roads were clear, but it’d been snowing steadily for the last forty-eight hours, and the drive was going to be long and dangerous. The truth was that Neal would have loved to have Mike and Sheryl there, for himself as much as for Peter, but he knew what Peter would say. _The doctor said he’s going to be fine,_ he typed. _I’m sure he’d like to see you, but wait until the roads are better._

The room they finally showed Neal to was dim and quiet. Peter was lying on the bed with his eyes shut, and for a few seconds, Neal thought he might be asleep. He sat in the bedside chair, wishing he could touch him but not wanting to wake him if he was already out. But then Peter’s hand twitched, moving towards Neal’s, and his eyes opened, just barely. 

“Hey,” Neal said, taking Peter’s hand. It was cold, and Neal rubbed it between both of his. “How’re you doing?”

Peter grimaced. “S’sorry.”

The words were slurred a little, and Neal frowned. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, more clearly. “I’m so sorry, Neal.”

“Hey, no, don’t be,” Neal said. He moved to the edge of his seat so he could lean forward on the mattress and see Peter better. His eyes were shadowed and unfocused, and Neal wondered what it was costing him to even keep them open. “Peter. I saw the hit, there wasn’t anything you could have done about it.”

Peter frowned. “No lecture?” he asked. 

Neal relaxed, fractionally, glad that Peter remembered that much. The doctor had said that Peter didn’t remember the hit at all, or much of the game. But he apparently recalled that Neal wasn’t supposed to be there. “No, it got canceled tonight. I went to the game.”

If anything, Peter looked more upset. “I’m sorry,” he said again. 

Neal shook his head. “Don’t be,” he said, and pressed his lips to the back of Peter’s hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Not good,” Peter admitted, eyes falling shut again. “Tired. Sick.”

“Get some rest then,” Neal said, carefully brushing the hair off Peter’s forehead. “They’re keeping you overnight, but tomorrow I get to take you home. I told your parents they should wait until the roads are better, but I’m sure they’ll be down soon.”

Peter sighed. “Thanks.”

Neal would have stayed all night if they’d have let him, but the nurse came to kick him out about five minutes later. He came out to find that most of Peter’s teammates had left, but Jones was still there. “Hey,” he said, standing. “How’s Peter?”

“Pretty out of it,” Neal said, with a glance back toward Peter’s room. 

Jones nodded. “That’s normal.” Neal nodded, trying not to let on how shaken up he was. “Can I drive you home?”

Neal blinked. “Jones, you didn’t need to stay just for that.”

“Yeah, I did,” Jones said. “Can I drive you home?”

Neal frowned. “What about your car?”

“I rode in with Peter this evening. We’ll have to get his car from the stadium tomorrow, but in the meantime, let me drive you home. The weather’s shitty, it’s not a good time to be distracted behind the wheel.”

Neal had to admit that he was right. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Neal’s car was parked in the hospital garage, so at least they didn’t have to clear snow off of it in order to get going. Neither of them said anything as Jones maneuvered the car out of the garage and onto the slick roads. It was close to midnight and there weren’t many other people out. 

“How’re you doing?” Jones asked, while they were stopped at a red light in a completely empty intersection. 

Neal shook his head. “I’m not sure. I think I’m on autopilot right now. I mean.” He stopped, taking a deep breath. “A head injury like this, that’s my nightmare.”

“I know it is,” Jones said. The light changed and he eased them through the intersection. “But you heard the doctor - he’s going to make a full recovery.”

“I know,” Neal said, though he couldn’t help thinking about players he’d read about, people who were out for a year or more with concussions, people who were never the same afterward, people whose injuries caught up with them after they retired. 

“In the meantime,” Jones went on, “the hard part is going to be keeping him from going crazy. I got my bell rung pretty good in juniors, and the second-worst part of the recovery was the boredom. I couldn’t watch TV or read or look at a computer. I thought I’d go nuts.”

Neal nodded. “What was the worst part?”

Jones sighed. “Not knowing how long I’d be out. No one can say with concussions. This could be three weeks, or it could be six months. Peter is going to have to be very patient. He can’t go back before he’s ready, no matter how much he wants to. You might have to remind him of that. A lot.”

Neal nodded. “Thanks.”

They pulled into Neal and Peter’s driveway at last. Neal climbed out, careful on the slippery walkway. “You okay to get home?” he asked Jones.

“Yeah, it’s only a couple blocks,” Jones said. “Keep me updated, all right? I know Peter will need to stay really quiet for a while, but let me know when he’s ready for a visitor.”

“I will,” Neal promised, and headed inside. 

The whole house was dark and quiet. Neal took a deep breath and let his shoulders slump. He was exhausted, and he wasn’t sure he’d sleep well alone in their bed, even though he slept there alone a lot during the season. The Sabres were on a homestand at the moment, and he’d looked forward to sleeping in the same bed as Peter for a couple of weeks. Now it looked like he’d have Peter with him for a lot longer than that, but it was hard to feel good about it. 

He fished his phone out of his pocket and turned it back on. It immediately lit up with a litany of texts and missed calls. Peter’s mom had written back to say that the snow was supposed to stop tomorrow, and they’d try and come tomorrow night or maybe Saturday morning. Sara had texted again, asking if he needed anything. Neal wrote back: _Ice time tomorrow at seven. Join me?_

He thought it was probably too late. But he’d barely made it up the stairs before she wrote back: _Of course. Sleep well._

***

Under the circumstances, Neal knew that most people probably would’ve skipped their morning work-out. But the nurse had told him not to come back before nine, and nothing would settle him like the smell of refrigerated air and the feeling of ice under his blades. 

He’d decided months ago to take this year off from competition. The Olympics were a little over a year away, and he’d had a slew of minor injuries at the end of the previous season; nothing serious, just sprains and strains, but he’d learned the hard way to listen when his body was telling him to rest. But he still had ice time three times a week at the local rink where he and Peter had first met.

Sara was waiting for him this morning, lacing her skates up already. “Hey,” she said, when he sat down next to her. “How are you?”

“Tired,” he said honestly, as he laced up his skates. “But glad to be here.”

“You haven’t been to the hospital yet this morning, have you?”

Neal shook his head. “I’m supposed to head over about nine, so I’ll need to cut things short here. But I thought it might help me get my head screwed on straight.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sara said. She stood up, offered him her hand, and led him out to the ice. 

One of the joys of taking the year off from competition was skating regularly with Sara again. Neal was staying in shape, but he wasn’t pushing himself, and Sara joined him a lot more often for his on-ice workouts than she had when he was training. They took a few minutes to loop around the rink, syncing themselves up, warming up their muscles. Sara had put on some music, just to give them a beat to skate to, and they went through some footwork from an old routine before attempting a series of twists and lifts. Sara had been sternly forbidden by her orthopedic surgeon from ever jumping again, so she sat on the edge of the rink and watched as Neal worked his way up to a triple flip. No axel today, he decided, and definitely no quad; he wasn’t in the right headspace and he didn’t want to hurt himself. 

By 8:15, Neal was covered in a fine layer of sweat and feeling a lot more settled in his own skin. He and Sara parted ways for their respective locker rooms. Neal took a shower and dressed in the street clothes he’d brought with him, with the intention of going straight to the hospital. 

He expected Sara gone by the time he came out, but she was waiting for him. “Breakfast,” she said, handing him a bottled blueberry smoothie and a peanut butter sandwich on a whole wheat English muffin in a small plastic baggie. 

He frowned. “I would have picked something up.”

“Three hours from now,” she replied with a knowing look. 

“Maybe,” he conceded, and accepted the food. “Thank you.”

She hugged him hard. “Take care of yourself, okay? And if you need anything, just ask.”

Neal took a deep breath, tucking his face into Sara’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he said, muffled. 

“You want me to come to the hospital?”

“No, that’s okay,” Neal said. “I don’t want to overwhelm Peter. I think his parents will be down tonight or tomorrow, too.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you soon. Not sure about Sunday morning, I’ll let you know.”

He ate the peanut butter sandwich and drank part of the smoothie in the car before heading over to the hospital. It was a few minutes after nine when he walked into Peter’s hospital room. Peter was sitting up in bed, listlessly poking at the unappetizing remains of his own breakfast. He didn’t look quite as bad as he had the night before, but there was still a gray cast to his face that Neal didn’t like. He perked up when he saw Neal, though, pushing the tray away so there was room for him to sit on the bed. 

“Good morning,” Neal said, leaning over to kiss Peter. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” Peter said, letting his head fall back to rest on the pillow. “Kind of fuzzy. And queasy, though that might be the hospital food.”

“I’ve got half a blueberry smoothie left in the car,” Neal said. He hitched himself up on the mattress. “And we’ll get you something better at home.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. He sighed, reaching for Neal’s hand. Neal linked their fingers together. “I’m sorry about this.”

“So you said last night,” Neal said. “And I’ll say the same thing I said then - don’t be. I saw the hit, there was nothing you could’ve done.”

Peter grimaced. “I’ll have to take your word on it. I don’t remember any of it. But I also mean I’m sorry for all the ways the next few weeks are going to suck.”

“We’ll get through it,” Neal said, “just like we got through my sprained knee and my tweaked shoulder last year.”

“Head injuries are different,” Peter said, a little sharply. “And I know this is exactly what you were afraid of three years ago.”

“Yeah, but -”

“I’m saying, if you wanted to move back to June’s for the next few weeks, I wouldn’t blame you.”

Neal drew back, stung beyond words. It took him a few seconds to find his voice, but when he did, it was remarkably steady. “I’m going to pretend you never said that to me.”

Peter sighed. “Neal -”

“ _No_ ,” Neal said. He had to look away and take a deep breath. “Peter, that was - I made a mistake three years ago, because I was afraid. But for you to think I’d run away now - I don’t even know what to say to you. I hope you wouldn’t stay with someone who’d abandon you like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, softly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Didn’t you?” Neal snapped. “How else was I supposed to take it?”

This time, it was Peter’s turn to look away. “It’s a lot to ask. I thought I should give you an out.”

“Well, don’t,” Neal said. “I don’t want an out.”

Peter nodded. Neither of them spoke, but Peter’s hand found Neal’s on the bed again. Neal squeezed it. Peter looked tired and miserable, and Neal knew he couldn’t possibly stay angry. He rubbed Peter’s hand, finding the pressure points that were supposed to relieve headache, and Peter closed his eyes with a sigh. 

It was another thirty minutes before the doctor came by. He ran through the concussion protocol with Peter, shined a light into Peter’s eyes, making him flinch, and made him walk to the bathroom and back just to show he could. Peter was a lot less steady on his feet than Neal liked, but the doctor said that being in the hospital wasn’t going to help. He gave them both a long list of symptoms to watch for and an even longer list of things to avoid, and signed Peter’s discharge papers. 

At home, Neal helped Peter out of the car in the garage and into the house. Peter’s sigh of relief at being home was audible. “Upstairs or downstairs?” Neal asked. 

“Upstairs, I guess,” Peter said. “Since I can’t watch TV anyway.”

“I can read to you,” Neal said. “If you want.”

Peter gave him a small smile. “That sounds nice, actually.”

Neal shadowed Peter up the stairs, but left him alone to get undressed and into bed. He went into the spare bedroom, which doubled these days as a study for Neal, and poked around on the bookshelves. Both of them had Kindles, so everything on the shelf was an old favorite, most of them a little battered and dog-eared. 

Pratchett’s _Small Gods_ finally won out. Neal took it with him back to the bedroom, where he found Peter poking at his iPhone, against all doctor’s orders. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Helena texted me,” Peter said, but he handed his phone over when Neal held his hand out. 

“What do you want me to say?” Neal asked, thumbs posed over the phone. 

“Tell her I’m okay, and I’ll call her tonight,” Peter said. Neal typed in the message and sent it. “Can we do the rest?”

“Some of them,” Neal said, frowning at the phone. There were a lot of text messages, from teammates both current and former, hockey and non-hockey friends, and family. He started at the bottom, with the ones that’d come in right after the hit and had therefore been languishing the longest. He read them aloud to Peter, who lay next to him with his eyes closed, and typed in whatever Peter told him to say. They only got through about a third of them before Peter’s voice grew slow and heavy, and Neal deemed it time to stop. 

“You hungry?” he asked. 

“No,” Peter said, without opening his eyes. “I think I need a Vicodin. And maybe a Compazine.”

The Compazine was for nausea. Neal passed a hand over Peter’s forehead, brushing his hair back, and went to get both pills. He brought Peter a bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge to take them with. Peter swallowed both of them. Neal crawled up on the bed beside him and put a pillow in his lap, coaxing Peter to lie down with his head on it. Neal turned the bedside lamp on, just bright enough to read by, and rubbed the back of Peter’s neck as he opened _Small Gods_. “‘Now consider the tortoise and the eagle,’” he began, pitching his voice low.

Peter’s head grew heavier in Neal’s lap as he read. After fifteen or twenty minutes, fairly certain that Peter was asleep, Neal stopped. He laid the book down beside him on the bed and rested one hand on the crown of Peter’s head. 

Here, in their darkened bedroom, with Peter beside him, breathing deeply and evenly, Neal could admit to himself just how frightened he had been - just how frightened he still was. He didn’t want the out Peter had offered him, but he couldn’t forget that hit, couldn’t forget what it was like to sit there, frozen, while they carried Peter off the ice on a stretcher.  
***

That night, Neal dreamed of a much worse hit, of blood on the ice, of Peter silent and still and gray in a hospital bed. In the dream he knew that Peter was gone, even if his body was still there, and he woke, shaking, with tears on his face. 

Normally, Peter would have woken with him, might have even shaken him awake. But Peter had taken painkillers before bed, and he was sleeping deeply. Neal laid a hand on his chest, felt it rise and fall beneath his palm, and told himself it hadn’t happened like that at all. But it took him a long time to stop crying, even longer get his breathing under control. He’d never felt so alone in their bed, and he knew he could never, ever tell Peter. 

***

It was another forty-eight hours before the weather lifted enough for Peter’s parents to come down. That day and a half was long enough for Neal to realize how much he and Peter both needed them. They’d each done their fair share of looking after each other in the last three years, but none of the bumps, bruises, and colds he’d nursed Peter through prepared Neal for the reality of post-concussion symptoms. Peter was snappish and maudlin by turns, and while the headache seemed to ebb and flow, Neal suspected it was never really gone. 

Friday night, Neal went to bed hours after Peter had gone up. He thought for sure he’d find him asleep, but instead he found him curled in the bed, clutching the bowl they kept there in case Peter had to throw up, and crying. _Crying._ Neal froze for a second, too shocked to react. “Peter?” he finally managed.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled thickly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Neal said. He felt like he was saying that a lot lately. “What’s wrong? Is it your head?” Peter nodded, then moaned, pressing his face into the covers like that would help. 

The Vicodin wasn’t on the nightstand. Neal spent two or three frantic minutes searching for it, before finally finding it in the bathroom. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t know how it ended up in the bathroom,” he said, crouching down by the bed. 

“My fault,” Peter said. “I took one this afternoon, left it there.”

Neal nodded. “Okay. You can have two now. Slowly, okay?” If he rushed it, they’d just come right back up. 

The pills stayed down. Neal managed to get some ginger ale into him, too, and then he helped Peter settle himself comfortably against the pillows. He went back into the bathroom to wet a washcloth with warm water. It was only then that he realized his hands were shaking. He dropped the washcloth in the sink and pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, let the shaking spread to the rest of him for a few seconds. Then he picked up the cloth and wrung it out until his hands stopped trembling. 

It took both of them a long time to fall asleep. Washcloth over his eyes, Peter laid his head on Neal’s lap. Neal read to him quietly by the light of the bedside lamp on its dimmest setting, one hand holding the book and the other buried in Peter’s hair, rubbing gently at his scalp. Peter went quiet and still by degrees, until Neal felt comfortable putting the book down. He was still dressed, but he didn’t dare move. He fell asleep like that and woke in the middle of the night with a crick in his neck. 

The next morning, Elizabeth came by, bringing groceries. She kept her voice low when she came in, and she didn’t ask to see Peter. Neal thought it probably wasn’t the first time she’d done this for a member of the team who had a concussion. “And how are you doing?” she asked, once Neal had updated her on Peter’s condition. 

“I’m fine,” Neal said, shrugging the question off.

El clearly didn’t believe him. “Taking care of someone can be exhausting,” she said mildly. “Let me know if you need a break, all right? I can come and stay with Peter for a while. Or if you just need someone to talk to.”

Neal nodded, looking down at his feet. “Thanks. I will. Peter’s parents are coming down as soon as the weather gets a little better, though.”

“Good,” El said. “But my offer stands.”

She hugged him extra hard when she went to leave and made him promise to pass the hug along to Peter. Neal spent the rest of the afternoon puttering around the kitchen, making chicken soup while Peter lay on the sofa and listened to NPR on the radio. He added lots of ginger to the broth, hoping it would help Peter’s rocky stomach. 

The heavy snow finally stopped on Saturday, and Sheryl called that night to say that they were leaving the next afternoon and would be there by dinner. Neal was relieved, and not only for Peter’s sake. They were getting by, but he would be glad to turn the reins over to Peter’s parents for a few days. 

Dark fell before Sheryl and Mike arrived. Peter had fallen asleep on the sofa under a throw, and Neal was in the kitchen, poking at a pot of slow-cook oats and somehow managing to feel bored, stressed, and exhausted all at the same time. Then he heard a car pull into the driveway, its high beams sweeping across the wall of the kitchen. Neal glanced outside and saw, with a sharp pang of relief, Peter’s parents’ ten year old Chevy, snow filtering through the bright light of its headlights. 

Neal was tempted to go out and greet them, but he wanted to give Peter a few seconds to pull himself together. He went and crouched by the sofa. “Peter, hey,” he said, crouching down by the sofa. Peter opened his eyes and blinked at Neal in confusion. “Your parents are here.”

“Oh,” Peter said, and started to lever himself up. 

Neal stopped him. “Stay here, all right? I’m sorry to wake you, but I thought you’d want me to.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, still bleary. He passed a hand over his face. “Thanks.”

The doorbell rang, and Neal went to let Mike and Sheryl in. They entered in a flurry of cold air and bags; both of them spared a hug for Neal, but he could tell they were eager to see Peter. He gestured them through to the living room and then retreated into the kitchen, giving the three of them some space. 

He was ladeling oatmeal into a bowl when Sheryl came in. “Something smells good,” she said, and smiled when she caught sight of the pot on the stove. “Ah, Peter’s favorite.”

Neal nodded. “I made chicken soup, too,” he said, opening the fridge to show her the small Pyrex bowls, stacked neatly. “But he’s mostly been drinking the broth. I was thinking about making applesauce or mashed potatoes. Reese is worried about him losing weight while he’s out.”

“Sweetie, stop,” Sheryl said, putting her hand over Neal’s and closing the fridge door. “I believe that you’ve been taking good care of my son.” Neal nodded, shoulders slumping. “I’m a little worried about you, though.”

“I’m okay,” Neal said. She raised her eyebrows at him. “I am,” he insisted. 

“You look tired.”

Neal shrugged. “I haven’t been sleeping great. But I’m okay.”

“Have you been skating?” she asked, shrewdly. 

“I went on Thursday before picking Peter up at the hospital,” Neal said. “I missed my session this morning. But I have ice time again on Tuesday, if you don’t mind hanging out with Peter.”

“Of course not,” she said. “That’s what we’re here for. Why don’t you go to breakfast with Sara afterward, too?”

“Maybe,” Neal said, not sure how he felt about being away from Peter for so long. Not that there was anyone better qualified to take care of Peter than his own parents, but still. 

Neither of them spoke as Neal finished doctoring Peter’s oatmeal with cinnamon, brown sugar, and a handful of dried cherries, because Peter hated raisins. He offered the bowl to Sheryl, who took it but also pursed her lips. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

“I thought I’d let the three of you have some time,” Neal said, wiping his hands on a towel. 

“Hmm,” Sheryl said. “Well, that’s fine if the reason you’re doing it is that you’d like some time to yourself. I understand that you probably haven’t had much since Peter was hurt. But if you’re doing it because you think we’d rather see Peter without you, then you’re mistaken.”

“I just need a break,” Neal assured her. It was mostly true. “I thought I’d take a shower, maybe lie down for a bit.”

She nodded. “Okay.” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight. Neal let himself tuck his face into her shoulder briefly before letting her go. 

He went upstairs and showered, just as he’d told Sheryl, and then he changed the sheets on his and Peter’s bed before lying down. He didn’t think he had any right to feel as tired as he did; he’d barely left the house since Peter was hurt, after all. But as soon as he lay down he realized he was exhausted. He set the alarm on his phone for an hour and closed his eyes. 

He woke before the alarm went off, when the mattress dipped under Peter’s weight. “Mmm?” Neal mumbled, vaguely inquiring. 

“Shh, go back to sleep.”

Tempting as that was, Neal blinked, focusing blearily on Peter’s face. “Parents?”

“Went to the store,” Peter said. “Go back to sleep.”

Neal caught sight of the clock. “My alarm was going to go off in five minutes away. You okay? You need anything?”

“I’m fine,” Peter assured him. “I was hoping I could join you.”

“Of course,” Neal said, moving over so Peter could slide in beside him. Since Peter had gotten hurt, Neal had been the one doing the holding, but now Peter slid an arm around his shoulders, pulling Neal close against his chest. Neal rested his head there, feeling the faint echo of Peter’s heartbeat beneath his ear. “How’s your head?” he asked. 

“About the same as it has been,” Peter said. Neal made a dissatisfied noise at that answer, and Peter sighed. “It hurts. It’s going to keep hurting for a while. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Sorry,” Neal murmured, a little stung by Peter’s tone. 

Peter stroked a hand through his hair. “Not your fault. And I don’t mean to snap, I just - I hate not knowing how long I’m going to be out. At least when I broke my leg, they could ballpark it for me. But with heads, no one knows.” Neal nodded. Peter was quiet for a while, still stroking Neal’s hair. “My mom’s worried about you,” he said at last. 

Neal sighed. “I told her I was okay.”

“Yeah, for some reason she didn’t totally buy that,” Peter said. “And I don’t either.” 

Neal was quiet for a few seconds, wondering what he could say to reassure Peter without outright lying. “I’m okay enough,” he said at last. “There’s only so much we can deal with at once, and right now you’re the priority.”

“So in other words,” Peter said slowly, “you don’t want to upset me, so if you’re not okay you’ll just keep it all locked up in your head.”

“That’s not quite how I would put it.”

“But it also isn’t inaccurate.”

Neal shrugged. “I’m fine, really.”

Peter didn’t answer. Neal curled closer. Peter’s body felt as strong as ever beneath his, and that strength had always been comforting to him. He felt Peter draw a quick breath. “Do you want me to quit playing?” 

“ _What_?” Neal said, head jerking up in shock. “Peter, no!”

Peter relaxed. It was only then that Neal realized how tense he’d been. “I had to ask. My mom thought - but you really don’t?”

“No,” Neal said firmly. “You love playing hockey, Peter, and you’re only going to get to do it for so long. I would never ask you to stop.”

Peter looked at him. “Would you tell me if you did want me to stop?”

Neal was silent. “No,” he finally admitted. “Probably not. Not unless I thought you were really putting yourself at risk. If I thought you were trying to play injured - yes, I would. Otherwise - no. You’ll play until you decide it’s time to stop. I trust you to make that decision at the right time.”

“Thank you,” Peter said quietly. Neal nodded. “But something is wrong.”

Neal sighed, sitting up. “Peter, of course something is wrong. You’re hurt, and none of us know when you’re going to get better. It could have been much worse, and that’s not exactly a comfort. So no, I’m not okay, how could I be? But there’s nothing you can do about it. Don’t apologize,” he added, because he could see that it was on the tip of Peter’s tongue. “Don’t. It’s not your fault, it just is what it is. Nothing’s going to fix it except time.”

Peter nodded, acknowledging the truth of the statement. After a moment, Neal lay back down, head on Peter’s chest. He didn’t know if he felt better or worse for having admitted that he wasn’t okay. There wasn’t anything that could be done, and they both knew it. 

***

Peter’s parents stayed for five days, and Neal was grateful. It allowed him to leave the house occasionally and go skate with Sara and attend classes, and he knew he wouldn’t have been comfortable doing either of those if it had meant leaving Peter alone. Peter still had headaches most days, some of them worse than others. Sheryl had calmly explained to Neal that concussion recovery wasn’t a steady uphill climb, and that there were likely to be setbacks before he was fully recovered. Neal had nodded, as though he found that reassuring. 

But eventually, they had to leave - a day early, in fact, because there was more snow rolling in. Neal would’ve been just fine with them staying a little longer, but they had their own lives, and he thought Peter was ready for them to go, too. Glad as he’d been to have his parents around, Neal could sense Peter’s temper starting to fray around the edges. 

The house was very quiet once they left. Peter had woken with a migraine, and he hadn’t gotten out of bed at all, not even to see his parents off. Neal stood in the kitchen for a long time after they pulled out of the driveway. He couldn’t help feeling a little bereft, even though he and Peter had muddled through before his parents got there, and they’d do the same now. Finally he poured a glass of ginger ale from the bottle that was open in the fridge and climbed the stairs.

Peter was lying face up on the bed, with a cloth over his eyes. Neal said nothing; he set the ginger ale on the bedside table and crawled into bed beside him. He found Peter’s hand under the covers and squeezed it; Peter squeezed back, faintly. Neal ran his fingers lightly up Peter’s arm, wrist to elbow, and back again, over and over, until the tension bled out of Peter’s body and he slept. 

Neal’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and saw a text from Sara. _Skate tomorrow?_ she asked. 

Neal hesitated. He wanted to. He could feel the itch under his skin that only time on the ice would cure. Skating was important; he knew, from other times in his life when he’d had to give it up temporarily, usually because he was injured, that not skating made everything else in his life just a little bit harder. But with Sheryl and Mike gone, he was responsible for looking after Peter. The headaches came on with almost no warning, and sometimes he was dizzy or lost his balance. Neal imagined Peter trying to navigate the stairs alone and falling and had to suppress a physical shudder. 

_No, sorry_ , he wrote back. _But the ice time is yours if you want it._

For the next week, Neal only left the house to take Peter to his doctor’s appointments. The tone of the appointments was cautiously optimistic, though they still weren’t willing to say when they thought Peter would be able to start practicing with the team again, even in a no-contact jersey. He had fewer headaches, and the ones he did have responded a lot better to the painkillers. Neal made simple meals from the groceries that Sheryl and Mike had bought while they were there, soups and salads and sandwiches, and Peter ate willingly, if not enthusiastically, most of the time. There were days that were better than others; there were _hours_ that were better than others. But he was getting better. Neal could see it with his own eyes. 

But it didn’t seem to matter. Neal still couldn’t get through the night without twitching awake, breathless and heart pounding. He still couldn’t convince himself that if he left for a couple hours, to skate with Sara or go to his Italian Renaissance seminar, Peter wouldn’t relapse. He still couldn’t stop remembering, at the worst possible moments, watching Peter go down under that hit, or the sound his helmet had made as it hit the Plexiglass. 

Two weeks after the hit, Neal drove Peter home from his doctor’s appointment. Peter was quiet in the front seat, and Neal was worried that he had a headache he wasn’t telling him about. Peter had started making noises about Neal needing to leave the house, and Neal was afraid he might start hiding symptoms. On the list of things Neal had to worry about, that was an entirely new one. It was almost refreshing. 

To his surprise, Sara’s car was in their driveway, when Neal pulled in. He eased the car into the garage next to Peter’s sadly neglected BMW. “Sara didn’t say she was coming today,” Neal said, frowning as he got out of the car. Peter didn’t answer, and Neal hurried into the house to let her in. He hoped she hadn’t been waiting in her car for very long. 

It wasn’t just Sara, Neal saw, glancing out the front window; it was also Jones, and both of them had grocery bags in hand. He opened the door. “Hey. What are you guys doing here?”

“Checking up on you,” Sara said, breezing through. “Where’s Peter?”

“Right here,” Peter said, on Neal’s heels. “Hey, you two. Thanks for coming.”

“Wait,” Neal said, looking at him. “Did you call them? You’re not supposed to be using your phone.”

“It was only a very short call,” Jones assured him.

“And it didn’t tell us anything we hadn’t already guessed,” Sara added. 

Neal glanced between the three of them and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m sensing a conspiracy.”

“Not a conspiracy,” Peter assured him. “More like a, um -”

“Intervention,” Sara supplied. 

“An intervention?” Neal repeated. “For what?”

“For you,” Sara said bluntly. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Neal. You and I are going to go skate. We have ice time in half an hour. After that, I will take you to the college, where you have an appointment with your art history TA to talk about the work you’ve missed.”

Neal blinked. “You emailed my TA?”

“No, _you_ emailed your TA,” she said dryly. “FYI, ‘silver2014’ is not a secure password and you should change it. Meanwhile, Jones will stay here with Peter - not because Peter can’t be alone, but because Jones misses him.”

“Aww,” Peter said. “Really?”

Jones slugged him on the shoulder, very gently. “You know it, man.”

“Change your clothes and grab your skates,” Sara told him, and headed into the kitchen. Jones followed her with the grocery bags. 

Neal turned to look at Peter. “Am I driving you crazy?” 

“No,” Peter assured him, then grimaced. “Well, yes, but that’s not why I did this. I’m so grateful to have you with me through this. But you can’t let the rest of your life grind to a halt. Maybe that was necessary the first few days, but not now. I can be on my own, and you need to live your life. You can’t sit around here, getting depressed and thinking about what could’ve happened.”

Neal went very still. “You know about the nightmares, don’t you?”

“I do,” Peter said softly. “I wish you’d told me about them.”

Neal looked away. “I couldn’t - I can’t talk about them.”

“I think we need to talk about them,” Peter said. He reached out and took Neal’s hand, pulled him in to rest against his chest. “I got a number from Reese. For a counselor he and his wife saw a few years back when he retired. I think we should go talk to her.”

“You think I need counseling?” Neal asked, frowning. 

“No, I think _we_ need counseling,” Peter replied. “I think that three years ago, we stuck a Band-Aid over a major issue so that we could be together. And believe me, I wouldn’t trade those three years for anything, but the Band-Aid isn’t holding up anymore.”

Neal shook his head. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“I am,” Peter said. 

“This time,” Neal whispered. 

Peter sighed and pulled Neal tighter against his chest. “Let’s go see the counselor. I’ll call and make the appointment today. And in the meantime, go with Sara. Let her look after you for an afternoon.”

Neal swallowed. “You’ll be okay with Jones?”

“I will. Go. Have fun. Tell me all about it afterward.”

Neal nodded. He kissed Peter on the lips, then hugged him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Peter said, hanging onto him. “I don’t know how I’d have gotten through this without you. You’ve been so good to me.”

Neal didn’t know what to say to that. He’d only done what needed to be done, what anyone would have done under the circumstances. He settled for kissing Peter one more time before running upstairs to change and get his skates. An hour on the ice would do a lot to put things right in his world. 

***

Peter’s first practice back with the team, in a no-contact jersey, came three weeks later. Neal had class for most of it - and after missing two weeks, his professor had made it clear that he could not miss any more - but he got to the rink in time to catch the very end. They were still running drills, so Neal climbed into the stands, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Peter saw him and threw him a wave, but he was clearly too wrapped up in what they were doing to come over and say hello. 

To Neal’s surprise, he found El sitting in the bleachers, a notepad on her lap, watching the action. “Hey,” he said, dropping down beside her. 

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “He’s doing great.”

“Good,” Neal said. “What brings you here today?”

“Peter’s doing an interview after practice.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “He didn’t mention that.”

El shrugged. “He asked me to call Rona and arrange it.”

“Huh,” Neal said. Rona McCoy was the local beat reporter who had done their first big interview after the Salzburg Olympics. She’d written a great piece that had ultimately made their lives a lot easier. Peter interacted a lot with all the local reporters, but he knew Rona had a special place in his heart. 

“How’ve you been?” El asked, after a beat of silence. 

“Okay,” Neal said. She pursed her lips at him, and Neal grimaced. “Really, I’m doing better. I’m going to class, making my ice time. Last night even I went to the movies with Sara, and Peter stayed home. I’m okay.” He didn’t add that he’d gone to the movies as a sort of homework assignment from the counselor he and Peter had seen twice now. _Get out of the house,_ she’d said, _for no other reason than that you can. Peter will be okay if you leave, even if it’s for something totally frivolous._

“I’m glad to hear it,” El said, pressing her hand to his shoulder. A whistle shrilled, signaling an end to the practice, and the players started filing off the ice. 

“How long do you think Peter will be with Rona?” Neal asked as El stood up, notepad in hand. “I was going to wait for him, but if he’s going to be a couple hours, I might head home.”

El looked thoughtful. “I think you should stay. You might even listen to the interview.”

“Really? Won’t that be a distraction?”

“You can watch from the tech booth. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The media set up at the Sabres’ practice facility was nowhere near as good as the set-up at their stadium, but there was a little sound booth with video feed from a small conference room. Rona had set up in there already, Neal saw when he slid into the sound booth. It was just him in there; the cameraman was in the conference room with Rona and El. 

Neal didn’t put the headphones on to listen until Peter came in, fresh from the showers. He was flushed and smiling, and he shook Rona’s hand as she congratulated him on his first practice back. “How does it feel?” she asked as they settled into their seats. 

“Great,” Peter said, grinning. “It feels great to be back with my team. I’m wearing the no-contact jersey for probably another two weeks, but I’m so glad to be back.”

“You’ve been out for five weeks,” Rona observed. “That’s a long time. How do you think the team’s done in your absence?”

Peter smiled. “They’ve been great. I wasn’t able to watch the games for the first couple weeks I was out, but I listened to them, and I’m glad to see how well they’ve done. I’ll be back to full strength by the postseason, and it’s going to be a great one.”

“Excellent,” Rona said. “This was your first concussion, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Peter said. “I’ve been lucky. Very lucky.”

“And how has it been?”

“Hard,” Peter admitted. “It’s been hard on me, and it’s been hard on Neal. Maybe harder on him than on me. This is something we’ve both worried about, but I’ve been playing so long without any problems that I started to think it wasn’t something that could happen to me. Well, this woke me up good. And it made me think.”

“About what?” Rona asked. Neal sat forward in his seat. Clearly, Peter had had something very specific in mind for this interview. 

“About priorities,” Peter said, face very serious. “About the choices we make. Hockey players don’t like to think about certain things, you know - like the fact that what we do to ourselves now can come back to haunt us later. That’s true for a lot of injuries, but with concussions it’s especially insidious, because they’re cumulative. There are guys still playing who’ve had three or four significant concussions. They know the dangers, but because they feel fine, they keep going.”

Rona nodded. “Why is that? I don’t think that makes a lot of sense to people who haven’t played at this level. Why would you put yourself at risk like that?”

It was a question that Neal had wanted to ask Peter many times. It was the major question they’d been dancing around in their therapy sessions. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of Peter’s answer, but more that he didn’t think he could avoid sounding accusatory - as though he thought Peter was being reckless and irresponsible, when he really just wanted to know _why_. 

Peter shrugged. “Part of it is being young and stupid and feeling invincible. But most of it is just self-preservation. I love playing hockey just as much as any other guy in the League, and I know I’ll only get to do it for so long. I’m thirty-one, and I’ve got maybe six or seven years left in me, if I’m lucky. I’ve got to provide for myself and my future family now, because I don’t know what’s going to happen when I’m done. That’s a lot of pressure. And so we tell ourselves we’ll be fine. But some of us won’t be.”

“Do you think that players who’ve suffered multiple concussions should retire?” Rona asked. “Should that be an NHL rule - two concussions and you’re out?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know. On the one hand, I can’t tell another player what to do. It’s his career and his body. But on the other, I don’t think we’re always the best judges of what’s best for us. And the pressure we put on ourselves is always going to be to get back out there and start playing again. It’s what we love. It’s what we’re good at. But I do think it’s a conversation we should have more often. It’s something we should be allowed to think about, and we should talk about it with the people closest to us.”

“Did you talk about it with Neal?” Rona asked shrewdly. 

Peter nodded. “Neal and I have talked about it. Not as much as we should have. It’s not an easy subject.”

“Did you talk about retirement after the hit?”

“Not seriously,” Peter said. “Not this time. But it made me realize that there are things I haven’t done yet in my life, and I want to do them. Things that maybe, might be more important than hockey.”

Neal’s breath caught.

“Bold words,” Rona said, lips quirked in a smile. 

“I know,” Peter said wryly. “And I’m opening myself up for a lot of heat by saying them. But it’s true. And it’s important. And right now there’s this unspoken pact in the NHL to never, ever talk about it, and I think that needs to change.”

Rona didn’t speak for a few seconds, studying Peter. Finally she reached over and turned off her tape recorder. Thankfully she didn’t turn off the mike, so Neal heard her say, “Peter, are you sure you want me to write this article?”

“Yes,” Peter said firmly. “Someone needs to say these things, and no one else is. I know it won’t make me very popular in certain circles, but -”

Rona held her hand up. “That isn’t what I meant. I meant, are you sure you wouldn’t rather write the article?”

“What?” Peter said. 

“I think you should write the article,” Rona said. “An op-ed piece.”

Neal stood up and took off his headphones. He left the soundbooth and let himself into the conference room just in time to hear Peter say, “I don’t think that’s - Neal. I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“El said I should stay for the interview. Hi, Rona.”

“Hi, Neal,” she said, smiling. “Care to weigh in?”

“I think you should do it,” Neal said to Peter. “Just like Rona said. Write the op-ed piece.”

“I don’t know,” Peter said slowly. 

“C’mon, Peter,” Rona said. “El and I will help you write it.”

Peter looked at Neal. “It should come from you,” Neal said quietly. “Not from anyone else.” Even an interview wouldn’t carry the same weight as Peter’s own words, he thought. He’d said it perfectly.

“Yeah,” Peter said slowly. “Okay.”

“Great.” Rona stood up. “Tell you what - talk to El and take a shot at a first draft, then send it my way and I’ll let you know what I think.”

Peter nodded. “Thanks, Rona.”

“Any time,” she said with a smile. 

Peter left the conference room, and Neal followed just behind. Neither of them spoke until they’d cleared the hallway and were back in a restricted part of the facility, away from anyone who might overhear. Then Neal stopped, and Peter turned to face him. “Did you mean it?” Neal asked. 

“Yes,” Peter said, a slight hoarseness in his voice the only trace of emotion. Well, and maybe a little extra brightness in his eyes. “My life with you, the life we’re going to have, is more important to me than hockey. I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt that.”

Neal swallowed. “I never thought about it that way. I get it, you know. We only have so long to do what we love.”

Peter shrugged. “That’s true of anything. Life is short.” He stepped forward, put his hands on Neal’s shoulders, and gripped them hard. “Listen to me, Neal. You said you wouldn’t ask me to quit, but I need you to promise me that if you think we need to have that conversation, you’ll say so. That you won’t let what happened three years ago get in the way.”

“I won’t,” Neal said. “But try not to put me in that position, okay?”

Peter nodded. “Okay. Deal.”

Neal nodded, then slipped his arm through Peter’s. “Come on, then. Let’s go home.”

_Fin._


End file.
